


Through The Holes In Your Touch

by themetaphornextdoor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-04
Updated: 2011-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themetaphornextdoor/pseuds/themetaphornextdoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Angels are so much more than humans. Time is not inflexible, but a force to be moulded. Castiel moulds himself to Dean."<br/>Dean/Cas, R. 353 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through The Holes In Your Touch

_  
_

Castiel lets Dean think he's taking care of him. He lets him believe he needs guidance, coddling. The blushing, naive virgin, the student of affection. He lets Dean take control, guide him, watches the uncertainty turn to determination and back again.

Those green eyes are always such a kaleidoscope of emotion, as much as the stoic hunter tries to hide it.

An angel - fierce, unyielding, potent - he puts his body in Dean's hands, and he watches.

Each touch and stroke, each breath and moan, stretch out like individual atoms along a string of matter. Miniscule and invisible. Every moment is an incomprehensible distance from the previous.

He takes up residence in between - as only a celestial power can - in the unnoticed, inconceivable space where there is no time. Not even a millisecond to Dean's reality, to a human, but a possible eternity to himself - malleable, elastic like taffy.

Time's like that. Or not, as it were.

He writhes as this experienced lover breaks him, takes him apart and puts him back together with skilled hands and a soft mouth. He watches from the in-between, the gap between worlds. He savors.

Castiel, Angel of the Lord, makes it last forever - so they never stop, so he never has to leave.

He'll remain here now, while the world carries on, as Dean continues forward, as a part of himself, even, moves on. To the war, the battle that will never end. The exhausting hope. The even greater battle of faith.

He'll linger, this speck of his being, basking in a pocket of reality that contains nothing but Dean, nothing but the feeling of being filled, stroked, tendered, clutched; rocked slowly into heat and ecstatic oblivion.

It's like falling, but with no limit. No age to grow to, no struggle to adapt, no pain, no dying - no living.

It's like giving in, without giving up. A part of him fights on still, somewhat lessened by this selfish sacrifice to pleasure.

While this Castiel, ** _Cas,_** stares into deep green eyes flooded with aroused black pupils, and arches, spilling hot seed over Dean's confident hand… again and again.


End file.
